"We ought to be sorry for him."

"I am in a way. But he always treated her very badly. Everybody knows about it. Did you know?"

"She never said so. Of course I've heard things."

"Shirley's loyal, he said. "Loyal through and through."

"Yes."

After a moment or two's silence Laura said, her voice suddenly harsh:

"You're quite right, you know. I ought to have stopped that marriage. Somehow. She was so young. She hadn't had time. Yes, I made a terrible, mess of things."

He said gruffly:

"You'll look after her, won't you?"

"Shirley is the only person in the world I care about."

He said:

"Look, she's coming now."

They both watched Shirley as she came across the lawn towards them.

He said:

"How terribly thin and pale she is. My poor child, my dear brave child…"

Shirley walked with Richard after lunch by the side of the brook.

"Henry's asleep. I can get out for a little."

"Does he know I'm here?"

"I didn't tell him."

"Are you having a bad time of it?"

"I am-rather. There's nothing I can say or do that's any help to him. That's what's so awful."

"You didn't mind my coming down?"

"Not if it's to say-good-bye."

"It's good-bye all right. You'll never leave Henry now?"

"No. I shall never leave him."

He stopped and took her hands in his.

"Just one thing, my dear. If you need me-at any time-just send the one word: 'Come.' I'll come from the ends of the earth."

"Dear Richard."

"It's good-bye then, Shirley."

He took her in his arms. Her starved and tired body trembled into life. She kissed him wildly, desperately.

"I love you, Richard, I love you, I love you…"

Then she whispered:

"Good-bye. No, don't come with me…"

She tore herself away and ran back towards the house.

Richard Wilding swore under his breath. He cursed Henry Glyn-Edwards and the disease called polio.

Mr. Baldock was confined to bed. More than that, he had two nurses in attendance. He loathed them both.

Laura's visits were the only bright spot in his day.

The nurse who was on duty retired tactfully, and Mr. Baldock told Laura all her failings.

His voice rose in a shrill falsetto:

"So damned arch. 'And how are we this morning?' There's only one of me, I told her. The other one is a damned slab-faced, grinning ape."

"That was very rude of you, Baldy."

"Bah! Nurses are thick-skinned. They don't mind. Held up her finger, and said: 'Naughty, naughty!' How I'd like to boil the woman in oil!"

"Now don't get excited. It's bad for you."

"How's Henry? Still playing up?"

"Yes. Henry really is a fiend! I try to be sorry for him, but I can't."

"You women! Hard-hearted! Sentimental about dead birds and things like that, and hard as nails when a poor fellow is going through hell."

"It's Shirley who's going through hell. He just-goes for her."

"Naturally. Only person he can take it out of. What's a wife for, if you can't let loose on her in times of trouble?"

"I'm terribly afraid she'll have a breakdown."

Mr. Baldock snorted contemptuously: "Not she. Shirley's tough. She's got guts, Shirley has."

"She's under a terrible strain."

"Yes, I expect so. Well, she would marry the fellow."

"She didn't know he was going to get polio."

"That wouldn't have stopped her? What's all this I hear about some romantic swashbuckler coming down here to stage a fond farewell?"

"Baldy, how do you get hold of things?"

"Keep my ears open. What's a nurse for, if you can't get the local scandal out of her?"

"It was Richard Wilding, the traveller."

"Oh yes, rather a good chap by all accounts. Made a silly marriage before the war. Glorified Piccadilly tart. Had to get rid of her after the war. Very cut up about it, I believe-silly ass to marry her. These idealists!"

"He's nice-very nice."

"Soft about him?"

"He's the man Shirley ought to have married."

"Oh, I thought maybe you fancied him yourself. Pity."

"I shall never marry."

"Ta-ra-ra-boom-di-ay," said Mr. Baldock rudely.

The young doctor said: "You ought to go away, Mrs. Glyn-Edwards. Rest and a change of air is what you need."

"I can't possibly go away."

Shirley was indignant.

"You're very run down. I'm warning you." Dr. Graves spoke impressively. "You'll have a complete breakdown if you're not careful."

Shirley laughed.

"I shall be all right."

The doctor shook his head doubtfully.

"Mr. Glyn-Edwards is a very trying patient," he said.

"If he could only-resign himself a little," said Shirley.

"Yes, he takes things badly."

"You don't think that I'm bad for him? That I-well-irritate him?"

"You're his safety-valve. It's hard on you, Mrs. Glyn-Edwards, but you're doing good work, believe me."

"Thank you."

"Continue with the sleeping-pills. It's rather a heavy dose, but he must have rest at night when he works himself up so much. Don't leave them where he can get at them, remember."

Shirley's face grew paler.

"You don't think that he'd-"

"No, no, no," the doctor interrupted her hastily. "I should say definitely not the type to do away with himself. Yes, I know he says he wants to sometimes, but that's just hysteria. No, the danger with this type of drug is that you may wake up in a half-bemused condition, forget you've had your dose and take another. So be careful."

"Of course I will."

She said good-bye and went back to Henry.

Henry was in one of his most unpleasant moods.

"Well, what does he say-everything proceeding satisfactorily! Patient just a little irritable, perhaps. No need to worry about that!"

"Oh, Henry." Shirley sank down in a chair. "Couldn't you sometimes-be a little kind?"

"Kind-to you?"

"Yes. I'm so tired, so dreadfully tired. If you could just be-sometimes-kind."

"You've got nothing to complain about. You're not a twisted mass of useless bones. You're all right."

"So you think," said Shirley, "that I'm all right?"

"Did the doctor persuade you to go away?"

"He said I ought to have a change and a rest."

"And you're going, I suppose! A nice week at Bournemouth!"

"No, I'm not going."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to leave you."

"I don't care whether you go or not. What use are you to me?"

"I don't seem to be any use," said Shirley dully.

Henry turned his head restlessly.

"Where's my sleeping stuff? You never gave it to me last night."

"Yes, I did."

"You didn't. I woke up and I asked for it. That nurse pretended I'd had it."

"You had had it. You forget."

"Are you going to the vicarage thing to-night?"

"Not if you don't want me to," said Shirley.

"Oh, better go! Otherwise everyone says what a selfish brute I am. I told nurse she could go, too."

"I'll stay."

"You needn't. Laura will look after me. Funny-I've never liked Laura much, but there's something about her that's very soothing when you're ill. There's a sort of-strength."

"Yes. Laura's always been like that. She gives you something. She's better than me. I only seem to make you angry."

"You're very annoying sometimes."

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

When she came in before going out to the vicarage whist drive, she thought at first that Henry was asleep. She bent over him. Tears pricked her eyelids. Then as she turned to go, he plucked at her sleeve.

"Shirley."

"Yes, darling?"

"Shirley-don't hate me."

"Hate you? How could I hate you?"